Misplaced
by Sherlock Prefect
Summary: Back again with another random idea- A vignette exploring Holmes's past. A kind of subtle rebuttal to all those time travel fics out there. It's on crack, btw. Enjoy.


A/N: My, my, I'm just so inspired lately, aren't I? I bet you're getting used to my demented ideas by now. But I'm afraid I can't tell you anything about this one, it would rather spoil the secret. But I will mention that I may write a sequel vignette or even story for this. You'll see suggestions of the alleged 'sequel' as you read, as I've left a few things unexplained. 

Now, before you start, you should understand what exactly brought this random story on: I was reading one of the Holmes stories involving time travel, and then read all the others, and then rested on Mavelle's, and thought to myself , "now that's a great way to make it original" and then, as usual, a tie-dyed lightbulb went off in my head, and so this is my version of a Holmes story involving time travel. Read and enjoy!

            _The education system has strayed from its original purpose, _Alex Sawyer thought as he was skimming through his history book during English class. _Half the students have no motivation at all to learn, and the other have are misplaced. Sure, they can bump people up a grade, but what good has it done me? I'm a thirteen year old in 9th grade and I _still _don't feel challenged. There have been much more efficient systems of education in the past… like this,_ he mused, as his history book landed on page 793, in the chapter about England during Queen Victoria's reign. 

            Alex stared at the sepia-tinted, stained photograph of a London street offered on the page; for some reason, not a lot of history teachers found this particular section too interesting, and never went into it in depth. Alex, however, felt an odd attachment to this era that went far beyond his complaints with the education system.

            "Alex? Do you have your homework?" the teacher asked, seemingly for the second time.

            "Hmm? Oh…" Alex came to and fished through his notebook and tore out the essay he'd written an hour before. "Here," he said, passing it up. The teacher gave him a hard look, but she couldn't do anything about his bad school habits; he did have one of the highest grades in the class.

            As the teacher started a bland discussion on _Julius Caesar_, Alex fell back into musing. He never really understood why he was so drawn towards the Victorian period. He'd researched it endlessly, and still found no explanation. Perhaps it was just a strange inkling that would wear out with time.

            He wasn't sure how much time passed during his thoughts, but all of a sudden the bell rang for the next class. Thankful, he stood and grabbed his bag, but before he could leave, the teacher called out to him.

            "Yes, Ms. Adler?" he asked reluctantly. He really didn't have time to be scolded by unenthusiastic teachers.

            "Would you mind returning this to the library?" she asked, walking over to him and handing him an encyclopedia- the volume that covered W. 

            Alex stared at it disdainfully, miffed at receiving this task. He wanted to ask why, out of all the brown-nosed students in the class, she chose _him_ to deliver a book to the library, but thought it might be a little disrespectful. He looked back up at her, and looked into her emerald colored eyes. She was young, perhaps even as young as 29, and might have seemed radiant if not for the dullness that surrounded her all day at school. She was misplaced here, Alex decided. It was a shame, really; of all the jobs that she would be much better suited to, she seemed to be stuck here.

            It was almost similar to his situation…

            Alex inwardly shook his head and took the encyclopedia in silence, placing it in his bag mechanically. He left the room without a farewell of any sort, once again turning inward towards his thoughts.

            It really was quite unbearable. In school he was living in a constant daze; he faded in and out of awareness during class, went home and completed his mindlessly easy assignments, and returned for another day of intermittent wakefulness. He wished there was a way to break the rut, but it seemed he would be stuck in this routine for another 4 years, until college.

            He was so caught up in his thinking he forgot to go to the library

            After half-heartedly listening during math class, the bell finally rang for class to end. Most of the students seemed thrilled at the prospect of going home, and yet to Alex it just seemed like completing the rut he was in. Go home, do work, and continue his self-education in chemistry and Russian. Sadly, those were the best hours of his day. He decided to stop off at the antique bookstore he knew on the way home; he might find something of interest to capture his attention.

            Leaving the compact, poorly situated high school, he walked along the street filled with brownstone apartment buildings mingled with shops. The bookstore was isolated from the rest of the world; only students and teachers traversed the street he was currently on, and where he was headed was even less populated. It was an offshoot of this street; in order to reach it from here, one had to dive into the proper alley, and go through a maze of back streets and pathways until the store seemed to materialize out of thin air.

            Alex knew the route well, and just traveling it managed to lighten his mood a little. Oddly enough, the stark alleyways made him feel at ease. Here the sunlight struggled to squeeze through the narrow openings, offering just enough light to see and still offering shade. Also, the back streets seemed to belong to a different time, as if they hadn't changed since the days of the Empire. Yes, that was probably it, he thought in amusement; it all went back to his unexplained preoccupation with that particular era. 

            Eventually the small shop became known to him; he smiled at the familiar rickety wooden door and stepped in, noting that the old owner of the shop still neglected the hinges. Inside the store was a peculiar atmosphere that seemed to come from a story; the store consisted of a small room bordered all around by bookshelves with faded finishing, with another, shorter shelf in the center. Dust was everywhere, as the old man who owned the store never cared for housework. In the corner was the small sales desk with an archaic register. The desk being unoccupied, Alex began to browse the books. Once again, he felt that odd kinship with every single book; books that came from a different time, a time that was elusive to him for an unknown reason.

            Sometime during his browsing, Alex heard a rustling noise coming from the back room, and turned to see the stone-sculpted face of the storeowner. His gray hair was always swept back, and he was always dressed in a medium gray suit. All of these elements lent him a constant aura of elegance.

            "Good day, Alex," he greeted mildly, gracing Alex with a small smile. "It's fortunate you came to my store today; I've just been looking through my stock recently, and came across a book which I thought you might be interested in possessing."

            Alex raised a quizzical eyebrow. The owner beckoned him over, picking up a small, weather-beaten volume from the table and handing it to him. Intrigued, Alex took it and examined it. There was no marking on the cover, or on the binding, or even the back, unless they had been eroded by time. Gently he skimmed the first few pages and was surprised to see neat, clean handwriting.

            _A journal? _he thought, confused. _Why would I want this?_

            He silently read a few passages and his eyes widened. Then, abruptly, he snapped the book shut and placed it back on the table, staring at it warily. Reluctantly, he looked back up at the storeowner with an accusing glare.

            "Where did you get this?" he demanded. This was intolerable… why would the storeowner play such a trick on him? He almost felt betrayed… 

            But why should he? It wasn't a very cruel trick, just a simple joke, but for some reason it agitated him.

            "I'm not quite sure," the storeowner replied, unfazed, gazing at Alex evenly. "I never knew it was in my possession until I found it in the back room yesterday."

            "It's a fake. You realize that, don't you? There's no way it can be real," Alex told him, a little vehemently. 

            Why was he overreacting so much? 

            "I don't know if it's fake or not, I just thought you might be interested," the storeowner replied evenly, fixing Alex with a paralyzing gaze.

            "Why?" he asked sharply. 

            The storeowner shrugged nonchalantly, as if this was all a simple matter. _Which was what it was_, Alex thought. Why couldn't he realize that? 

            "Take it or don't take it. I don't even want a price for it, for, as you and I are both aware, it certainly won't sell," the storeowner stated simply, and with that moved to the far corner to organize the books piled there. 

            Alex stared at the thin volume on the desk. It seemed to be reaching for him, as if it wanted to suck him in and trap him forever. He gave one quick glance towards the storeowner, and in a lightning-quick maneuver snatched the book, as if it would sink into the earth if he didn't take it fast enough. 

            Hesitantly, he turned to the first page once more and stared at the small title etched in pen.

            _The Journal of John H. Watson, '90-'91_

            _It was a joke_, Alex thought as he stalked through the alleyways. _It was a stupid joke, meant to be mildly amusing, and for no reason I snapped. What the hell is wrong with me? _

            He'd shoved the offending book into his bag with all his others. He was no hurriedly trudging through the back streets to leave the unpleasant memory of the bookstore behind him. Yet, with every step, the book seemed to weigh heavier and heavier in his bag.

            Why did life seem so surreal lately? Had it always been like this? Alex couldn't remember. He needed something to change. Something that would get him out of this pointless rut, something to make life worth living…

            Suddenly he felt his foot land in something slimy. Going at the rate he was, he couldn't stop or slow down, and with a sinking feeling he felt himself fall, with the full weight of his bag on top of him, straight down on the pavement.

            He awoke to voices at first; he was unwilling to open his eyes. His head was aching severely… had he fallen or hit it somehow? He moved a protesting hand through his hair and groaned.

            "Father, look- he's coming to," a deep baritone voice intoned from somewhere above him. 

            He opened his eyes and looked up slowly, and soon found himself eye to eye with a tall, fairly large young man. He was gazing at him in the most peculiar manner- as if they knew each other… he seemed to be in his early twenties, and had jet black hair that was in a state of disarray. 

            Soon, another man joined him- this one older, yet bearing a certain resemblance. It must be the father the younger man was addressing. An older woman followed to, who appeared to be the mother of the young man. 

            "Excuse me, lad, are you all right?" the older man asked, kneeling down to his level. He helped him to sit up, and gave him the same peculiar glance the younger man had given him. 

            "I… I'm not sure," he replied, rubbing his head. He sat up, with the father's help, and looked at his surroundings.

            He gazed in awe at the scene that surrounded him; cobblestone streets, narrow sidewalks, black iron street lamps, and carriages of all sorts echoing down the roads. Low-rise buildings all around daunted him with the claustrophobic air they lent. 

            He looked around him, and thought to himself.

            _This is reality. I can feel it… I know I'm awake. Yet… why does it feel so different? Was I dreaming?_ He relaxed his mind for a moment, and memories of this 'dream' flew back at him. He was in a world that was a stark contrast from this one- one in which the world was constructed of metals and compounds yet unknown in this era. There was television, phones, and… computers, was it? It was all failing him now. He struggled to remember more, but as it often was with dreams, the memories faded faster.

            "Can you hear me?" the father asked worriedly, bringing him back to attention.

            "What? What did you say?" he replied absently.

            "What's your name, lad?" the father repeated.

            Name? He didn't know… what did they call him in the dream? … Alex, was it? But who's to say that was what his real name was? Come to think of it, he couldn't remember much of his real life. What was his family, his home? 

            "I don't know," he replied slowly.

            The mother gazed down on him in sympathy. Then, she stooped and helped him stand, then held him at arm's length. The sun, being in full strength that day, beat down hard on London, and she noticed how the yellow light was reflected in the boy's shining black hair.

            "We'll call you Sherlock," she said, smiling. "Is that okay?" 

            He nodded. 

            "Now, Sherlock, do you have a family?" she asked him.

            "No… I don't think so," Sherlock replied quietly.

            The mother scrutinized him for a moment longer. Then, she turned to the other two family members questioningly. They both nodded knowingly, as if they could predict what the other would say and answer before speech was necessary. Smiling, the mother turned back to Sherlock.

            "Would you like to come live with us, Sherlock?" the mother asked gently.

            Sherlock gazed at her in wonder. Did she know what she was offering? No, of course she did… she was an intelligent woman, he could tell that. He looked warily at the other two, but they just smiled and nodded as if in approval. 

            "Yes- I'd like that," Sherlock replied, smiling. 

            "Well, then, Sherlock Holmes," the father said, as if officially dubbing him. "We'd better run along. Don't forget your bag, now." 

            Sherlock nodded and picked up the bag that lay next to him. As the walked off, it was odd… but Sherlock felt he truly belonged here. 

            _Epiloggue_

"Holmes? Are you all right?" Watson asked, noticing an odd, faraway look in Holmes's eyes.

            Startled, Holmes looked at Watson and blinked. Then, he shook his head and smiled apologetically.

            "Sorry, old friend," he said, smiling. "I was just… remembering. This dream I had when I was young. I didn't pay it much heed… it was just the oddest thing," he said, gazing at nothing as if it was being replayed before his eyes.  

            Watson was dumbfounded. Holmes had never before mentioned his youth nor his dreams, let alone in the same sentence. This was certainly unusual- and he knew that since Holmes had said it, he wanted to tell Watson, so he asked, "Really, Holmes? What was it about?"

            "Oh, I don't know if it was about anything… it was just in this place so different from here. It seemed to belong from a whole different time. I remember buildings with styles of architecture I've never seen, not even in an artist's drawing. Some of them looked as if their walls were constructed out of mirrors. And then there were the oddest inventions- I couldn't even imagine their purposes. There were boxes made of a compound I've never heard of, with images that rested inside them, on a screen of sorts. They changed, too- almost like a moving picture, yet in a much more compact form, and lifelike. Like watching through a displaced window, almost," Holmes paused and mused. "It was just a very odd dream, really. Strange that I can still remember it this vividly," he paused and laughed. "I even dreamt that I was known all over the world. How's that for a child's imagination?" he asked with a smile. 

            Watson chuckled, picturing a young Holmes with aspirations of becoming famous.

            "You know," he said, conversationally. "There's a doctor from Vienna who studies dreams. He believes they have hidden meanings, and can tell things about ourselves that even we don't know."

            "Oh, come now, Watson," Holmes replied, snorting. "That is nothing but nonsense. It was simply a child's idle imagination."


End file.
